


Stars In My Pocket And A Head Full of Darkness

by hellosorry



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Appalachian Mountains, Depression, Lost in the Woods, M/M, Mental Illness, Out in the Woods, Romance, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Trigger Warnings, camping trip, kinda slow, went to go shower but forgot flashlights and can't find the way back, what a bunch of directionally challenged nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 02:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20771288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellosorry/pseuds/hellosorry
Summary: Peter is asked by Mr. Stark to bring Harley along with his friends' camping trip and keep him out of trouble. Peter, being the people-pleasing idiot he is, agrees, and there's only one problem. Harley's kind of got a massive crush on Peter, one that he absolutely cannot under any circumstances act upon, because Harley only ever ends with people being hurt. Oh, and they're lost in the woods together because they forgot to bring a flashlight with them to the camp showers.





	Stars In My Pocket And A Head Full of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a vent fic, to be honest? I apologize. I got asked out on a date and I'm depressed and I don't know if he asked me just because he was supposed to or if he actually likes me. As for the suicidal thoughts stuff, which there is a lot of in this fic!! Warning!!, I'm way past that point in my life, so don't worry about me, please! Good luck! (PS-- this is unedited, so let me know if you see any mistakes!)

Harley’s second year counselor at Camp Taleit was a religious dick who taught him three things. First, always keep your tears hidden. People can’t mock what they don’t know are there. Second, God is an asshole. If he exists (which, as Harley found the night his dad disappeared-- he probably doesn’t), he exists only to toy with your emotions and play dirty tricks in the nighttime. Third, if you ever get lost, stay put. Rescue won’t come if they don’t know where to find you. 

The first two he could testify the truth of in a court of law. The only way that this could have  _ ever _ happened was if there was some sort of epic celestial prank in play. Harley Keener, lost in the woods at night, with pretty boy Peter  _ fucking _ Parker as company. Sounded more like the plot to some B movie horror film than anything resembling real life. Somebody was going to get hurt, and it wasn’t going to be him. 

He bit his lip. It was cold outside, and they must have been, what, a mile away now from the showers? Maybe half a mile. He tended to overestimate when panicking. 

“I think it’s this way,” Peter said, pointing down yet another dark and creepy camp trail. Harley wanted to suggest that they just stay put, wait for somebody to find them, but he couldn’t figure out how to make his mouth move. Something in the tremble of Peter’s shoulders, something in the icy glint of determination of his sharp smile. Something in the way that there was always the possibility of Harley Keener hurting a pretty boy named Peter Parker-- it had taken a rope and tied his vocal cords together so that they wouldn’t do anything horribly, horrifically  _ stupid.  _ So instead, Harley shrugged and followed Peter down a path he was pretty sure was headed west. Not south. The campsite was south.

A chilling breeze blew past, sending shivers down Harley’s wet and probably hypothermic spine. Water dripped down from a tangled blonde rat’s nest, the last remnant of the shower he had taken. 

“Harley?” 

Harley was falling apart, and it was all Peter’s fault.

“Yeah?” he rasped out. He sounded like he was dying, because it wasn’t Peter’s fault. It was his own goddamn fault, and Harley needed to grow up and figure out how to take responsibility.

“I think we’re lost.” Peter’s eyes met his, a warm swirling mass of chocolate mixing with blue, and oh, god he really should not know the exact shade of Peter’s eyes. That was creepy, bordering on stalkerish, and Harley Keener didn’t want to be a creep. He didn’t even want to be a person.

“Me too,” Harley whispered, drawing his gaze away. He had been staring too long. One mississippi, two mississippi, one mississippi too many. 

Peter squeaked. Giggled. Laughed. It was frankly adorable, and it sent a rush of panic in. What was he laughing at? Had Harley done something? Had Peter noticed him staring? Had he forgotten to zip up his fly? Was his shirt on inside out? Did he have something on his--He needed to shut up. Not everything was about him.

“ We’re  _ lost _ ,” Peter repeating, laughing hysterically. He fell to his knees, then to a resting position on the ground, staring up and up and up towards the sky. It was pitch black in the middle of the Appalachian nowhere. You could see the stars, and they were beautiful. “Mr. Stark’s going to kill me.”

“Why would he kill you?” Harley asked, hesitant. Afraid. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I, somehow, in a quest back from the camp showers, managed to get both myself _ and _ his prodigy son  _ lost _ in the  _ woods _ at  _ night _ .”

“I’m not a prodigy. And legally, I’m not Tony’s son,” Harley responded, sinking down to a criss-cross-applesauce position and ripping up little bits of probably obnoxiously green grass. 

“Right, you’re his ward. And what do you mean, you’re not a prodigy? You’re, like, super smart! Mr. Stark said something about making sure to keep you entertained, and that complex engineering problems usually do the trick, which first off, was kind of weird because I am  _ not  _ your babysitter, but second off, engineering? That’s so cool!” Peter said, lifting his head to look at Harley. 

Harley chuckled and found himself (for some odd reason) relaxing, which he shouldn’t have been doing. When he relaxed, people got hurt. If he relaxed, Peter would get hurt.

“Did Tony not tell you about my delinquent past? Smart kids aren’t supposed to get in trouble, I thought,” Harley said.

“Ah! That’s where you’re wrong! Some of the most famous scientists in history got in trouble, like, so much. MJ told me about a few, I remember, but I forget their names? Sorry, I’m kinda useless. But what I do know is that there are  _ people  _ who  _ exist _ and they are  _ smart  _ and they get in trouble… they get in trouble so much.” Peter waved his hands around as he talked, motioning explosions (because clearly explosions are superior to all other hand motions) and oh-so-much emotion. “Anywho, you’re smart. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.”

Harley shrugged. Talking was taking so much energy, draining him. Turning him into a rotting corpse or a zombie or maybe both. He couldn’t tell. 

“Here, I’m taking up all of the space. Lie down. Look, you can see the stars.”

Harley shifted uncomfortably, putting his head next to Peter’s. “All the space, huh?”

“Yeah. All the space. Look, there’s uh what’s it called? Cygnus! Right, the swan one!” Peter pointed. 

Harley couldn’t breathe. He was too close, this was too much, Peter was going to get hurt, he was going to  _ hurt _ . 

Harley didn’t want to ruin this, because this was perfect.

But Harley ruined everything, and Harley was better off dead.

“Do you want to hear something stupid?” Peter asked, wriggling around through the pine needles, presumably to try to get into a more comfortable position. He was so weird, but Harley liked it. Harley liked  _ him.  _

“Sure.”

Harley’s fingers twitched. He wanted to hold Peter’s hand, but that was epically creepy and Harley did not want to be a creep, Harley wanted to be dead. 

“I used to think you hated me,” Peter said, quietly for once. Still. Silent. “I mean, obviously you don’t, because you are so hecking nice? Like, who are you? Santa Claus? But because I am young and dumb and filled with incredible anxiety, I used to think you hated me.” 

“Why?” Harley asked. “Why would you think I hated you?” His voice was raw, his eyes burning. It had begun, and there was no way to stop it now. Because Harley Keener hurt people, and Harley Keener wanted to be dead. 

_ First, always keep your tears hidden. People can’t mock what they don’t know are there. _

“I don’t know. I think that your resting face is just, no offense, but vaguely uncomfortable? At first I thought it was because I was bi, you know, because no offense but like  _ southern, _ my friend, but then I saw the pride flag on your backpack, and that didn’t make sense anymore. Are you, by the way? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Peter was bi? Had Tony said something about it? No, that wasn’t a Tony thing to do. Peter was  _ bi _ ? 

No, he needed to stop. Just because Peter was bi, that didn’t mean that he would ever even consider liking Harley back. Now was not the time to confess, because never was the time to confess. Confessing would only lead to hurt, and Harley would rather be dead.

“Am I what?” Harley asked. He had a sinking suspicion that he knew what “what” Peter meant. But Harley was kind of stupid, and he liked to make sure. He also liked to stall.

“Gay.” Peter said the word so simply, with a note of finality that summed up 5 years of questioning, pain, thorny-word fights, and finding boys unfairly attractive into 3 letters and a single moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m gay.” 

Peter was silent. Probably plotting ways to get away, get out, get now. He had probably realized what a creep Harley was, how big of a crush he had on him. How much Harley was going to end up hurting him, and how much Harley wanted to die.

“Can I kiss you?” Peter blurted out.

“What? I-- Peter-- you don’t--”

“Harley. Can I kiss you?” Peter repeated. He had turned onto his side to face him, and there was a structure of seriousness in his frame. Determination in his hands. Frustration in his sharp smile.

“I--I’m… Peter, you’re going to get hurt. I’m going to hurt you.”

“You’re not answering me. Can I kiss you?” 

“Umm. Umm. Yeah. Sure.”

And for a brief, euphoric press of lips against lips (as light as a shooting star, as life-changing as the flap of a butterfly’s wings), Harley didn’t want to die.

He wanted to  _ live.  _

“ _ Oh. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos mean the world to me, and if you leave some I will love you forever and ever and be your best friend. Thanks for reading!


End file.
